


your portrait hangs in the hallway

by myconstant



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myconstant/pseuds/myconstant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ficlet: River Song is many things.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	your portrait hangs in the hallway

 

 

 

 

Any story of literary merit is supposed to have a beginning, a middle, and an end.

That right there is the first problem with River Song. Her story? has no structure, no continuity, no road signs that read _Happy Ending, Fifteen Miles That Way._

She is not a fairy tale.

 

 

 

 

It’s the 51st century and the bishop sitting across from her leafs through her file with something that resembles contempt. Handcuffs are tight and unfortunately irrelevant around her wrists.

“I can’t forget your transgressions, Dr. Song,” Father Octavian says in the same solemn tone she guesses he probably uses when he speaks with the Almighty. “This is a matter of security.”

She runs her fingers across the desk and acts charming. Makes promises she has no intention of keeping and asks for a decent pair of high heels (21st century Louboutins, preferably. Dior will do.)

As an afterthought: “I got kicked out of Catholic school when I was twelve.”

“Perhaps, you’ll be useful,” Octavian replies before leaving.

 

 

 

 

She kills the best man she'll ever know and then she runs, fully aware that they will catch her.

It’s all about keeping up appearances, after all.

 

 

 

 

Time can be rewritten.

In another life that has since been erased, River Song sits in an open plaza, skimming the pages of a worn book. She’s a journalist, not an archaeologist, and marries a politician and always remembers to water the petunias in the front yard. Rather than a diary, she keeps a calender because in this life, Monday becomes Tuesday and Tuesday becomes Wednesday. She is ordinary and ignores the gaping holes in her heart with practiced ease.

A man with a mysterious lack of eyebrows walks past her, whistling an unfamiliar melody and River doesn’t look up from her book.

Sunrise, sunset, sunrise.

 

 

 

 

“Can I trust you, River Song?” he asks.

It was never about trust, she wants to tell him. But really, the same thing always holds constant: when the Doctor pulls one way, River must pull another. The seams sometimes must tear.

Her lips curl into a smile and time progresses. She thinks that it’s getting later.

 

 

 

 

She’s been dreaming a lot, lately.

Sometimes the images makes sense, often times they do not. They always fade in the morning and usually, she doesn’t care. But she grasps at the ones of him, clinging to the fading visions of bow ties and leather jackets and absurd scarves. And celery stalks.

Even when she dreams, he never stays.

 

 

 

 

Here's the truth:

Father Octavian never knew what River Song was.

Neither did the Doctor.

Neither did River.

 

 

 

 


End file.
